Henry Morgan Returns Home 1815
by foreverHenry919
Summary: What may have happened when Henry returned home to Nora. His committal to Bedlam and escape from Southwark. And a Sullivan family legacy. Notes: I do not own "Forever" or any of its characters. Contains references to "Diamonds Are Forever" and "The Ecstacy of Agony episodes.


He'd finally managed to make it back to his home in England. Back to his dear wife, Nora, whom he'd missed so much. The doctor's excitement caused him to breath in and out in short puffs as he nearly ran up the path to their quaint but comfortable home in the English countryside. As he neared the small family graveyard, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his wife in widow's black. She knelt and wept at his empty gravesite. The headstone displayed his name, date of birth, and a death date of April 7, 1814. Of course, he wasn't dead, though. Or...was he? He wasn't sure anymore, but for now he didn't want to think about it. About his...strange condition. Not now.

But why had he not thought that this is what he would find? Of course, she would have believed him to be dead after all these many months, perished at sea along with the crew and human cargo of the "Empress of Africa" slave ship.

He picked up his pace again, ever so slowly, and gently called to his grieving wife.

"Nora?"

She startled at the sound of her beloved husband's familiar voice, and turned incredulous eyes on him. There he was. She was astonished. Henry. Her husband, back from the dead. She quickly rose to her feet and her tears of grief now flowed as tears of joy.

He slowly approached her, hat and satchel in hand. "If I could only have reached you sooner...spared you this..." he apologetically told her.

She ran to him and he gladly gathered her up into his arms. They kissed and embraced and kissed again.

"Henry...they told me you were dead. That you'd fallen overboard during a wild storm at sea." She searched his face for answers, her cheeks wet with happy tears.

He hesitated and chose his words carefully. "I have returned home now. That's all that matters."

"Yes." she gleefully agreed. "That's all that matters!" She closed her eyes and flung her arms around his neck as he smiled broadly and clutched her to himself. Finally, he could hold his dear Nora close once more.

The next few weeks were almost a blur, a flurry of activity as he reunited with family, friends, and reacquainted himself with the household staff's older members and introduced himself to the newer ones. Bartlett, the faithful old groomsman had passed on and his daughter, Jenny, and her new husband, had left only a few months earlier for the colonies.

Mildred, the cook, was also Bartlett's widow. In one fell swoop she had lost her husband to the grave and her daughter to marriage and to a new country. She fondly recalled how Mr. Henry had enjoyed her blueberry scones and was ever so happy to try to fatten him up again with as many batches as he desired.

Life at the Morgan manor was vibrant again as the cloak of mourning was cast aside and Miss Nora traded her widow's black for the ornate dresses and gowns frontly placed in her wardrobe once again.

As Henry almost effortlessly settled back into his once lucrative medical practice, Nora worked earnestly to resurrect their dormant social life. There were once again parties and dinners to attend; day hunts, travel, and theater to enjoy. After eight grueling and sometimes harrowing months, he was grateful to finally be reunited with his beloved wife, Nora, and back in his homeland of England. He enjoyed making up for lost time with her as they pieced their life back together and dusted off dreams of adding children to their small but sumptuous manor. The short, five-month period soon became marred with Nora's growing suspicions about the details of his "adventures at sea", and their reuniting would prove to be a strange hiatus between tragedy (his 1814 death) and tragedy (his 1815 committal).

He evaded her questions as long as he could. How could he possibly share with her, with anyone, the fantastical tale of not only his own violent death at sea by way of Captain Strong's flintlock pistol, but his inexplicable rebirth? He could no longer withhold his secret, though. She wanted to know what happened aboard ship. She'd known him long enough and well enough to sense when he was hiding the truth from her.

"I've given you my whole heart." she had said to him that morning. Her soft blue eyes had pleaded for him to quell her curiosity. That fateful morning when she'd finally broken down his defenses and he'd shared with her such a tale of wonder as neither had heard of except in fairytales - or the bible. A man dead and risen back to life? It was unbelievable, he knew. But he'd trusted her. They'd known each other since they were children. What danger could there be, he reasoned, to share this deep secret with her.

The day of Nora's betrayal, when she had him committed against his will to the asylum, was possibly the worst day of his life, his first death notwithstanding. But even that ranked second to her betrayal. There was no one around to punish him after his unexpected rebirth. Her betrayal of trust hurt far worse than anything else he'd endured so far. And the torture he endured in the way of "scientific treatment" for his perceived madness, he viewed as punishment for being the unwilling recipient of such an unimaginable condition. Immortality. He was cursed. He was sure of it. To the depths of his soul, if he indeed still had one, he believed immortality to be a curse.

Chained up more often than not in his dank cell, many thoughts plagued him. What had his wife actually told his other family members? Their neighbors and friends? Did none of them care enough to even inquire about him? Were none of the servants loyal enough to seek him out and render aid since his own family and friends seemed to have abandoned him?

Mildred. She had been their family cook since before he was born! She, her husband, and daughter had all so eagerly followed him and served him in his manor with his new wife.

What legal remedies might he avail himself of, if he had been able to get word out to someone? What had the doctor who'd had him restrained and forcibly brought to the asylum told the authorities or that so-called Dr. Stewart, the warden of this den of drudge? And most importantly, when was he to wake from this nightmare? He refused to believe that this was his life now. If he truly was immortal...he could spend eternity in Bedlam.

As the days grew into weeks and the weeks into months, he lost track of time. Nora visited him a few times. He wasn't sure how many. All he knew was that he'd pleaded for her to have him released, but she'd walked away each time and left him there to rot. He'd recalled how healthy and well-cared for she'd looked. Spending his hard-earned money with...whom? What cad? What treasure seeker? Why, the last time she'd visited, she'd trained her gaze away from him. In disgust, he imagined. He imagined all sorts of things previously foreign to him. Paranoia was fast becoming his closest companion.

He laughed to himself at the memory of it all. How pathetic and broken he must have appeared to her. Not even worthy of her pity! But, he told himself, he was a man and it was time that he behaved as such. There was a way out of this and he had to find it. The spark of anger inside him ignited and slowly grew full flame as he fed it with self-pity, fear, doubt, and worry. He no longer needed those emotions. Only anger and determination brought results. They thought him mad? Then he would be mad. Mad as a rabid dog. Madder than a beast of burden that had suddenly and violently turned on its master.

He gripped the bars on the door of his cell and screamed her name over and over, the pitch of his voice rising to ear-splitting levels: "Nora! Nora! Norrr-ra-aa!" The fury of the lash of one of the warden's Apprentice Torturers, as he referred to them, was suddenly laid across his exposed fingers as he gripped the bars. He snatched his hands back and stepped away from the cell door. The man with the lash was Bertie Farraday, a former servant of his father's who'd been let go after being caught stealing again. He grinned maliciously at him through the bars.

"Would you Adam and Eve it?1 (Cockney for "Would you believe it?") he growled in a thick Cockney accent through brown-stained, uneven teeth. he snatched the door open and stepped inside. Henry stepped further back into his cell, away from the vicious man and in intent to exact hard discipline.

"Dr. Henry Morgan." He flicked the lash in the air near Henry. "Always so high 'n mighty, yer Morgans, in yer fancy houses 'n yer fancy carriages." He flicked the lash again and laughed as Henry flinched from the brief but painful contact. "Well, here yer are, lost yer marbles and doing bird in a flowery dell.1" (Cockney for "lost your mind and doing time in a prison cell.")

Henry maintained eye contact with him as the back of his foot bumped the small table with his clay water pitcher on it. His hands groped behind him until he found the handle. "You're right, Bertie-"

"MISTER Farraday!" Bertie raised the lash.

"My apologies - Mister - Farraday." Henry struggled to remain calm. He grabbed the clay pitcher's handle and lifted it up behind his back. "My stay here has done much to - humble me."

Bertie laughed. "Let's see if I can...help ter - humble yer a little more." He raised the lash and Henry flung the clay pitcher into the man's face. The added weight of the water in the pitcher caused Bertie to stumble backwards into the door. He grabbed his face and wailed, "Me nose! Me nose! Yer broke me bloody nose!"

He quickly shoved the bleeding man aside and burst out of his cell. He looked desperately up and down the bleak hallway littered with trash, human waste and several of the more impoverished patients/inmates whose families could not afford even a dank cell for them. He recalled that Nora had exited the hallway to the left of his cell so he carefully made his way in that direction. After about 50 feet, the asylum's front door came into view. The bright sunlight and freedom on the other side of the door beckoned him as he geared up to run towards it.

Just then, Dr. Stewart came out of his office. The two men locked eyes and Henry froze in his tracks at the sight of the man who coldly and callously choreographed the almost daily dance of his torment. Stewart put his hands up and approached him cautiously.

"Now, now, Henry." He crept closer. The deadpan expression he always wore and his condescending attitude irritated Henry to no end. "I'm sure you're aware that you cannot leave here." He crept closer, his hands still held up in front of him. "You're not well...please calm down and return to your cell...there's no need for anyone to get hurt."

Henry seethed with anger and it jettisoned him towards Stewart as a primal yell erupted from him. The devil with gentlemanly ways and proper deportment; he was getting out of here in one way or the other! There was no other thought in his mind but to reach the door and get outside to freedom. Almost in slow motion, he saw Stewart fall backwards to the floor and land motionless. Henry, the gentle man who'd committed his life to healing, couldn't have cared less about the man's probable injuries and barrelled past him.

His hand was on the doorknob now. So close to freedom! Running footsteps and yelling behind him quickly became louder and closer. Just as the door began to open, the hands and arms overpowered him. They forcibly removed his hands from the doorknob and the door closed back. A primal yell erupted from deep within him again as the arms and hands dragged him down to the floor. Knees and fists were added to the mix and he was pummeled repeatedly into unconsciousness.

When he awoke from a troubled slumber, he found himself chained to the wall of a different cell. In a panic, he raised his arms and tried to free himself without success.

"Young man! Calm yourself." He looked up and saw a man approach him - a - priest? The man informed him that he'd been transferred there from the asylum.

Henry dropped his arms in frustration, hung his head, and closed his eyes. "What place is this?" he whispered.

"Southwark Prison." the clergyman replied as he dabbed at Henry's facial wounds with a damp cloth and placed a cup of water at Henry's lips, which he gratefully guzzled down.

The two men had the first of many discussions about their different transgressions that had caused them to share a mutual plight: life in prison. Of course, the priest being the "older man" of the mortal bent, would most likely reach the end of his life, his release, before Henry would.

After a few months, the despondent immortal's outlook brightened a little and he gained the courage to entrust the priest, Father Thomas Patrick Sullivan, with his secret. Much to his relief, the priest not only believed him, but informed him that his condition was a blessing. Henry confessed that he was not a religious man and he believed his condition to be a curse. The priest would have none of it and emphatically proclaimed that "the more blessed you are, the harder it is."

Fr. Sullivan declared further that Henry had been chosen by God for a reason. Henry was as skeptical about that as Nora had been about his immortality. He perked up, though, when the priest boldly promised to help him escape. However, he immediately deflated when Fr. Sullivan explained his plan that required Henry to cause his own death. Suicide by hanging. He may not have called himself a religious man, but he'd rather not find out the hard way that a sweet afterlife was denied him for breaking that commandment. His stomach flip-flopped as his defrocked cell mate excitedly shared his plans for the best way to snap a neck by hanging.

It took a few more weeks to convince him to agree to the priest's plan, but soon the both of them teetered precariously atop their small eating table with a make-shift noose around his neck. He marveled at how the priest showed no fear of reprisal once his "escape" became evident.

"You'll spend the rest of your life here." Henry pointed out, concerned.

"Just promise that when you come back, you'll go far away and use this blessing for good." He smiled at Henry, who nodded, and then the table was kicked out from under them. Fr. Sullivan fell to the floor and watched in amazement as Henry's body swayed for a second or two, then vanished in a brilliantly white flash of light. Clothes and all. As if he'd never been there all those months at all.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Five years later, 1821...

Henry nursed a pint of Irish whiskey (the _good_ stuff) in a pub in Galway, a city in Ireland's Western Province of Connacht. Even though his old friend, Fr. Thomas Patrick Sullivan, had been released from Southwark Prison only six months after his own "escape", Henry had only just recently learned of it. In fact, many of the prisoners had been released after sweeping reforms had nullified their prison sentences. Many had been imprisoned illegally at the whims of a group of shady magistrates who'd let their positions of power go to their heads.

 _'Absolute power corrupts.'_ Henry whimsically observed as he ordered another brew. A familiar voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see his old friend, Fr. Sullivan, already seated at the small table across from him.

"Saints be praised." Sullivan toothily smiled and extended his hand. Henry grasped the man's hand and held it momentarily in a tight grip of gratitude.

"Father Sullivan." he breathlessly greeted him.

"Not Father anymore." he held up his hand and lowered his head. "Just Thomas Sullivan, husband of Marielle and father of Kevin and Sorcha."

Henry frowned slightly and stared into his drink. "You were not allowed reinstatement?"

"Oh, I refused it!" he laughingly replied. Henry frowned further.

"You see, I would have had to repent and, frankly, Henry," he eyed him mischieviously, "I regret not one minute spent with my lovely Marielle." Sullivan sat back in his chair and continued. "Why, to imply that what she and I shared was sinful would be to deny my utter and complete love for the woman!" He slapped the table with one hand and lifted his pint of whiskey with the other.

Henry nodded and smiled. "I see." After a few moments, he frowned again and shook his head as he watched Sullivan take several gulps of his whiskey.

"No," Henry challenged, "what the two of you did _was_ sinful. She was a married woman, was she not?"

Sullivan set his drink down, wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand, and nodded.

"You not only violated the marriage trust, you violated your church vows of celibacy." Henry pointed out.

Sullivan smugly smiled and leaned closer. "They wanted to depose me. Make me fill their filthy minds with intimate details of our various...times...together." He took another gulp of his drink and wiped his mouth again. "No, no, no, my friend. If they want to enjoy sinful visions of a lovely lassie all a fuss over them, it'll not be of _my_ A ghrá geal (bright love)2." He drained the last of his drink. "You think I don't know how many hours they spend reading and re-reading the applications of priests who've sought reinstatement?" He caught the eye of the pub owner and raised his hand for another brew. He turned back to an amused and surprised Henry.

"I say let them amuse themselves with their own dirty deeds." The pub owner placed the new drink before him and swept away the empties. He glanced at Henry who shook his head and he quickly left.

"Alright, then," Henry began as he worked to keep his laughter at bay, "what do you plan to do with your life now?"

He pointedly stared at Henry. "The same as I told you. Remember? Go far away and use this blessing to do good. And by the saints," he took a quick swig of his brew and backhandedly wiped his mouth, "I shall."

Henry rubbed his hands together and pulled his lips in.

"You, me boy-o, are going to be around a lot longer than-"

"Don't. Don't say it." Henry's face saddened a bit as he furrowed his brow. "I try not to think about...that." He shuddered a breath in and out. "I don't want to..." He looked at Sullivan, then lowered his eyes. "I've managed a normal existence ever since we...last saw each other and the less I think of that, the happier I am."

Sullivan studied him for a few moments then suddenly jabbed a finger at him. "That, as you say, is a blessing!" The former priest guzzled down the remainder of his brew.

Henry sighed, noted the time by his pocketwatch, and snapped it shut. "It's best that I be going." he said as he stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Oh, by the by, whatever happened to Marielle's husband, the Magistrate?"

Sullivan grinned. "About six months after you, er, left, he died." He winked. "My darling Marielle and I were finally free to make a life with each other. After his death, his records were reviewed and they showed that many of his enemies and business competitors had wound up in Southwark Prison. Me, included. There were some minor legalities that had to be tended to, but eventually, I, and many others were freed." He softly drummed his fingers on the table. "Sadly, many others he'd wrongly imprisoned had already died."

"Oh, and Henry, you'll be happy to hear that your old friend, Dr. Stewart, has taken up permanent residence in your former cell." He laughed at the look of amused amazement that swept over Henry's face.

"Yes. Ironic, isn't it? As mad as mad can be." Sullivan laughed contentedly, Henry laughed with a tinge of guilt. The very smallest tinge.

The doctor stood up and placed enough coins on the table to cover their four drinks.

Sullivan picked them up and studied them. "One day you can expect repayment." He looked up sharply at Henry. "I swear on my dear mother's grave, rest her soul."

The two men exchanged goodbyes and parted. Sullivan hailed the pub owner for another brew as Henry approached the door. He turned and looked at his old friend one last time. Although it would be the last time they would ever meet, it would not be the end of their story.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Present day, Abe's Antiques...

The shop's bell over the door tinkled and Abe looked up from his repair job on a 1920's era lamp. A petite young woman in her early 20's with porcelainic features, dark hair, blue eyes and wearing a stylish business suit, walked slowly towards him as she swiveled her head to admire many of the shop's items. Her fingers brushed gently over some of them as she passed by.

"May I help you?" Abe cheerfully greeted her. "I'm Abe, the proprietor of this humble establishment."

The woman stood on the other side of the counter now and smiled pleasantly as she asked, "Is there a Henry Morgan here? I have something for him."

Abe hesitated a bit before replying. "Uh, yeah, he's around. Let me go get him." He walked to the door behind him and leaned in. His father was seated at his desk and appeared to be deep in thought as he updated what Abe had sarcastically dubbed his personal "book of the dead". And, of course, Henry had balked at that description and then taken great pains to explain it was his "journal of reawakenings". Whatever, had been Abe's reply.

"Henry, there's someone here to see you."

Henry looked up, aware for the first time of Abe's presence.

"A young lady is here to see you. Says she has something for you." He quickly beckoned him.

Henry reluctantly rose and proceeded to make his way into the shop. As he neared Abe, he said, "Although I can't imagine-"

"Henry Morgan?" the young woman inquired. "Dr. Henry Morgan?"

"Yes, I am he." He smiled, pleasantly surprised. "How may I be of assistance?"

 _'There he goes, beaming that immortal charm at the poor girl.'_ Abe wryly thought.

She opened her purse and withdrew a thick, letter-sized envelope. "I have a package for you." She handed it to him.

Henry looked at the envelope addressed to him and he looked back up at her. "I don't understand. What is this?"

"Once you open it, I'm sure you'll understand." she assured him. "My name is Daphne, by the way. Daphne Sullivan."

Her surname awoke something in his memories as he fingered the envelope. The weight of it felt as if it contained - but it couldn't be, he thought. He opened the envelope and found some very old coins, Irish currency, to be exact. They were accompanied by a note yellowed with age, in old handscript. It read:

"Dear Friend, Henry -

As I promised on my dear old mother's grave, rest her soul, here is repayment for the two pints of Irish whiskey. And if you are reading this note, it is only because it has been delivered to you by one of my descendants. Whomever it might be, ye need not worry for they have been taught well to share with no one the secret of your - blessing.

I'll be waiting for you on the other side whenever you make it here. My Marielle is anxious to meet you.

God bless you forever,

Thomas P. Sullivan

 _In the year of our Lord, 1835"_

Astonished, Henry smiled as he fingered the coins that were most likely the same exact coins he'd used as payment for his and Sullivan's whiskeys back in 1821. He was aware that Abe was reading over his shoulder and he looked up to question young Daphne Sullivan but she was gone. They hadn't noticed her leave. He thrust the note into Abe's hands and sprinted to the door and looked outside the shop in every direction but she was gone.

Henry walked back to rejoin Abe. He smiled and fingered the coins with a faraway look in his eyes that was all too familiar to his son.

Abe pointed a finger at Henry's face. "There's a story in all of this."

Henry looked fondly at his son and put his arm around his shoulder. "Yes. Yes, there is." Henry proceeded to tell Abe about his old friend, the former priest. He decided to tell him only the good parts. Only the good memories were worth keeping, after all.

1 Cockney slang found at .

2 Irish terms of endearment found at .irish/blog/irish-endearments/


End file.
